


all the kids have always known that the emperor wears no clothes

by spock



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: (Implied) Post-Canon Fix-It, Angst and Humor, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Identity Porn, Loyalty, M/M, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Service Top, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: James looked to Dmitri.Dmitri looked to Jopling.Jopling stared rather resolutely at the intricate rug he had only just yesterday fucked Dmitri silly on, the burns from which still must have been agitating Dmitri's back.
Relationships: Dmitri Desgoffe und Taxis/J.G. Jopling
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	all the kids have always known that the emperor wears no clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



It had been outside a minor duchy in the lowermost corner of Spiš that Jopling had received a rather unexpected correspondence from one of the few he considered to be his peer, a man he knew only as Tiger Jack. Jopling had only recently completed his disposal of a visiting general, setting into motion a series of events that wouldn't come to fruition until some years later. That done, and with no other work planned at that particular junction, he had found himself at a loose end.

 _COUNT IN LUTZ BEEN INQUIRING ABOUT YOU_ , the note read. _NEVER SEEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS. BASTARD WILL NOT DISCLOSE SHRED OF DETAIL._

His interest had been piqued.

** PART 1: **  
"D.D.u.T."

An unseasonably late storm descending upon the region had caused a delay at Jopling's scheduled connection in Pălincă, subsequently adding another day's journey to his trip. He arrived, mid-afternoon, to humid misery.

He checked himself into the Hotel Marillen, ensuring that the room he was given had a private bath. The bellhop tasked with seeing him to said room lingered only long enough to realize that Jopling would sooner murder him in cold blood than surrender a tip.

Alone, Jopling disposed himself of his clothing and luxuriated within the bathing room for over an hour, an indulgence that required him to empty and refill the tub twice.

When he finally felt satisfied, Jopling dressed in a robe provided by the Marillen and exited back into the room-proper. What he found there was a man sitting on the chair of the room's dressing table, inspecting himself.

"How in the fuck?" Jopling asked.

The man pulled his eyes away from his face, meeting Jopling's through the mirror. "Ah," he'd said. "Are you the J.P. Jopling of whom I have heard spoken of so fondly in many a vague and sordid conversation?"

Jopling wondered just how the man had managed to get into his room. It was a mystery to be answered on another day; the man had already announced his identity. "You're the Count," Jopling concluded.

"You've heard of me, then," Dmitri said, looking at equal turns suspiciously pleased and uncomfortably alarmed. "That's good."

"I've heard that you average to start one blood feud a week." Jopling walked towards the bed, which itself was stationed rather inconveniently in the middle of the room. He passed a side table as he went, collecting his brass knuckles and returning the pair of them to their home on his hands, feeling more himself even though he had been, essentially, nude. Dmitri, in contrast, seemed to be wearing his finest suit.

Dmitri turned to face him directly, no longer hiding behind the reflection of the mirror, eyes focusing in on Jopling's hands. "Do you wear those all the time?" he asked.

Jopling sat on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles, the effect of which afforded Dmitri a show of all the scars adorning his legs. "Only when I'm working."

His words caused Dmitri to sit straighter in the chair, no longer lounging as if the room they had been in was his own. He licked his lips. "Are you working now?"

It seemed the boy was full of questions. With an uncharacteristic bout of mirth that could only be attributed to an ever-increasing discontent with the life in which he led — undoubtedly that of which had brought him to godforsaken Lutz to begin with — and the sort of relaxation that came to a man after bathing so thoroughly after so tedious a journey, Jopling answered, "you tell me," and then smiled.

Dmitri stood at once, looking agitated. "I had a man, you see," he began, starting to pace, "Before the War started. But he was conscripted and I haven't heard from him since."

Dead, most likely, Jopling decided, and figured that the man mustn't have been altogether good to begin with if he couldn't survive something as straightforward as the War.

"I haven't been able to find anyone worth a damn since," he continued, coming to stand in front Jopling at the bed, the points of his polished shoes brushing Jopling's toes. "And I must say, you aren't what I'd expected at all, but it was so fucking hard to find you that I figure I'm willing to give it a shot anyway." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and met Jopling's eyes directly. "The main thing I'm looking for is discretion, anyway. Would you say you fit that bill?"

"Nobody more discreet than me." Jopling placed a hand behind him, reclining slightly on the bed. He steepled his fingers on the duvet, as well as where his other hand rested in his lap, drawing Dmitri's attention back to his knuckles. "Are you going to tell me what the details of this particular job?"

Dmitri's gaze snapped back to Jopling's in that instant. "I'm not about to disclose anything until we've come to an agreement." An unexpected climate of aggression colored the lines of his body, a contrast to the sudden perturbation undercutting his tone. "I'm offering thirteen thousand klubecks a week and not a cent more."

It had been approximately a third of the rate Jopling usually carried, but he was interested, a feeling that he hadn't experienced in quite a while up to that point. Jopling privately considered such novelty to be payment enough.

Jopling stood, bringing their bodies into close contact. It became apparent to the both of them, at the same instant, that Dmitri stood whereabouts a head taller than Jopling himself, Jopling's line of sight landing quite resolutely on the lower half of Dmitri's face. He was confronted with one of the many reasons he avoided Lutz, and in fact that area of the continent altogether, when possible: they grew them so much taller there than they did out west, where Jopling had come from.

He tilted his chin up, looking at Dmitri with all the conviction of a man who had grown used to staring up his nose in the same manner a taller man would look down it. "Sounds like I'm your man."

Dmitri lunged at him, a move so unexpected that he succeeded in toppling Jopling onto the bed.

The minute Jopling’s back hit the mattress, he swung.

Dmitri clutched at his face. "What the fuck," he'd said, although with a low enough register that it was entirely possible he was speaking more to himself than Jopling. He rubbed his bottom lip with the back of his hand, spreading blood across his mouth from the wound Jopling had landed there. His eyes met Jopling's. "How about we save that for later in the evening," he said, which Jopling found himself struggling to parse as either a question or statement.

Regardless, it was certain Dmitri had come to some sort of conclusion. That decided, he thrust himself at Jopling again, his mouth a slick heat against Jopling's own. Now knowing what to expect, Jopling let Dmitri have his way with him, his hands hovering awkwardly to the side, unsure if he was to remove the brass or not.

Dmitri seemed to have no such hesitation. He reached behind himself, pulling off his suit-jacket without so much as a momentary cessation in their kissing. He flung the garment onto the floor, uncaring. His hands came up between them, first loosening his tie, and then making quick work of the buttons of his shirt, starting first with the ones at his throat.

Jopling decided that being passive served neither of them well. His hands came to rest on the sides of Dmitri's gaunt face, and he pressed forward into the kiss at last. It had been a long time since he had last been with anyone, and Jopling had found himself quite enjoying the soft brush of Dmitri's mustache against his lips, the sharp bite of blood giving an edge to their passion, a counterpoint so fully matched by Dmitri's apparent interest with him.

At his touch, Jopling could feel Dmitri faltering, their kiss having taken the shape of a frown.

It is not something that Jopling would admit aloud — and certainly never to Dmitri later, once they had become better acquainted; and of course after such point there had been no other with whom Jopling would share such intimate confidences at all, leaving no one for him to confess such a thing to regardless — but it was only in that moment that Jopling fully understood the scope of the job which he had accepted.

He loosened his grip for a moment and flexed his fingers away from Dmitri's face, allowing the brass to fall from his hands and onto the mattress to be swallowed up by the plush duvet. That sorted, he slid his hands forward, tangling his fingers into Dmitri's erratic shock of hair.

Jopling yanked.

Dmitri's body became a lax, convex line, curving quite utterly into Jopling, the arrogant fight of his being, that had been so prominent only seconds earlier, entirely gone.

The details that Jopling had requested earlier were finally given. Dmitri parted their lips just far enough for him to speak, and said, "I like to be fucked."

** PART 2: **  
"The Covenant of Phaedo"

Jopling found that Lutz was much more hospitable when viewed from the inside of a well-maintained hotel room.

The view being the fine picture Dmitri's body made as he worked himself upon Jopling's cock. The man had lithe thighs that hid a strength that well suited his stamina. He was not loud in bed, and instead communicated through an extremely articulate body language. Jopling had felt as if they had entire conversations just by Jopling reading the set of Dmitri's shoulders, the slant of his mouth, the change in his breath. Sometimes it was clear Dmitri had too much agency, and Jopling would take command of his hips, slowing Dmitri's pace, or encouraging him to speed up. A state of transcendence would settle over Dmitri's face, and had been as if Dmitri was of the moment as much as he was experiencing it.

When it had become clear that Dmitri could handle no more, Jopling toppled him onto his side. He fucked Dmitri with such a bruising pace that the force of it had Dmitri bouncing back against him, the mattress doing nearly half of the work for them.

They carried on like that into the night, until even a man such as Jopling needed to sleep, wherein he discovered that Dmitri was as entitled in his sleep as he was when awake, his thin, long limbs conquering impossible amounts of space within the large bed that Jopling had rented for himself.

At multiple times during the night, Jopling awoke to find Dmitri had misappropriated the blankets, sequestered Jopling to the edge of the mattress, or both.

Most alarmingly, Jopling didn't mind.

** PART 3: **  
"The Tailor of Schloss Lutz (Kunstmuseum, 31, fol. 1r)"

There was a rather tall and menacing gate that surrounded the Desgoffe und Taxis estate, its chief purpose likely to keep men by the likes of Jopling from prematurely ending the gilded lives of those inside. Jopling had, in fact, been entirely certain that no man such as himself had ever so much as been given leave to enter through the front door, and never mind the rest.

But Madame D. had been out of the country on one of her tours, and so enter through the vestibule Jopling did.

Dmitri met him at the door wearing little more than a silk pair of black pajamas, his smoking jacket designed in an Eastern cut which made the red of his house shoes stand out all the more.

He looked, to Jopling, like the sort of cult leader that would swindle a declining village on the precipice of ruin, and then move on to the neighboring area without an ounce of regret.

That is to say: it suited Dmitri well, and Jopling liked it very much.

"So we're going straight to your room," Jopling deduced.

Dmiti shuffled away from him and frowned. "No," he said. "Why?"

Jopling decided then not to say anything else. He had been in the rather intimate service of Dmitri for three weeks by then, and had thought himself skilled at reading Dmitri at that point. He began to reevaluate that assessment.

Faced with Jopling's silence, Dmitri spoke. "Come with me; I've hired a man to outfit you."

Given what Jopling knew of Dmitri's tastes, he hadn't been able to wonder if that was some sort of euphemism.

They ended up traveling through the many halls up the numerous stairs and into one of the countless rooms within the mansion, happening upon a man who informed Jopling that his specialty was leather, and who asked him to stand on a raised dais so that he might get Jopling's measurements.

Jopling stood, though he hadn't been pleased about. "What is this about?" he demanded to Dmitri, who had absconded to a chair a few paces away and seemed to manifest a drink for himself in the same amount of time it took Jopling to step up on the platform and turn to look at him again.

Rather than answer, Dmitri stared, his gaze a heavy weight on Jopling as he stood not unlike a maquette being manipulated for its master's pleasure. His only solace was Dmitri's obvious and increasing displeasure, clearly wishing to speak, yet rendered unable to in such mixed company.

When the tailor finally closed his journal, appearing to be finished, Dmitri wasted no time in springing to his feet. "Thanks a lot," he said to the man. "Now get the fuck out."

He did.

Alone, Dmitri seemed to have a well of words which were waiting to pour out of him. "You won't believe what shit Laetizia's brought on us this time," he began, and then carried on for a long while after that.

When it came to the point in his story that Dmitri started to repeat himself, Jopling made the decision for the both of them that it was done. He walked to the chair Dmitri had abandoned in the midst of his agitated ranting and sat in it, waving Dmitri back from the opposite side of the room that he had paced to.

Dmitri went.

He looked wonderful on his knees, and with a full mouth they had discovered in the weeks past that it was much harder for him to work himself up.

The following morning a jeweler arrived, hired to take measurements of Jopling's fingers. In the afternoon, it was a cobbler.

** PART 4: **  
"A Second Meeting of Established Parties"

That Dmitri had anything resembling friendly relations came as a shock to most that knew him. To Jopling, especially, given that the person in question is one that he knew as well.

They had been in Dmitri's study; Jopling resting his eyes as he laid on the settee in the corner of the room, Dmitri scheming at his desk. The door had opened, both of them looking up. Serge stood there, a familiar face towering behind him, and announced that a Mister James M. was there to visit.

Dmitri hadn't smiled, but his tone had been warm enough when he said, "Holy shit, long time no see, you machiavellian fuck."

James hadn't replied, his gaze zeroing in on Jopling instead. " _This_ is where you've been hiding?"

And although Jopling had thoroughly enjoyed his time with Dmitri, Jopling hadn't ever let Dmitri's tendency to self-delusionary whimsy prevent him from dreading that such an incident as this might occur. It was, he had supposed, only a matter of time.

Dmitri, however, looked thoroughly shocked. His face weighed down by a vicious expression, his frustration palpable, all traces of good humor gone. "Jopling," he said, voice clipped, "how do you know this man?"

James seemed to know Dmitri well enough to realize that he had aggrieved him in some manner. He closed the door behind himself, stepping further into the room so that he needn't raise his voice more than necessary when he spoke. "This is the guy I hired to kill my sister last year."

James looked to Dmitri.

Dmitri looked to Jopling.

Jopling stared rather resolutely at the intricate rug he had only just yesterday fucked Dmitri silly on, the burns from which still must have been agitating Dmitri's back.

"An assassin." Dmitri had said it as if he was trying the concept on for size, nothing more than a costume.

James took a seat at the chair in front of Dmitri's desk. " _The_ assassin," he said.

"Hey Jim," Dmitri said, sitting back down and retaking his pen in his hand. The man stood up taller, clearly eager to be addressed with much familiarity in a much less hostile tone. "Get the fuck out."

James went, leaving havoc in his wake.

Many different things ran through Jopling's mind then. That Dmitri might be angry at him for lying. That he'd suspect that Jopling had been manipulating him all along, Jopling sent there on a job. Worst of all, that he'd come to fear Jopling.

And then, because Dmitri was who he was, and Jopling's luck was what it been —

"How easy would it be for you to pick off my mother's younger brother?"

Dmitri landed on a possibility Jopling hadn't considered, something infinitely more crushing: reclassifying his use for Jopling altogether.

** PART 5: **  
"Violence: An Interlude"

Not once in all his years had Jopling been so micromanaged as under Dmitri. The man wanted updates from each station that Jopling arrived at, uncaring that such correspondence would undoubtedly leave a trail for anyone motivated enough to look. Jopling did his best to make all such messages as vague as possible, pragmatic in its delivery. The response to which from Dmitri was always the same: _THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?_

Jopling took far longer than any such assignment might usually require in an attempt to better cover his tracks. If all failed, he was sure that, should they be caught, he would be able to keep Dmitri safe in whatever jailers cell they were thrown into, but he wasn't wholly enthused at the thought of being confined to a schedule outside of his own.

Beyond Dmitri's, that was.

In the end, Jopling caught Dmitri's uncle on his way home from visiting a widowed friend, and in a break from his usual manner of handling such things, made sure to make the entire mess look like an accident.

** PART 6: **  
"The Grand Budapest Hotel"

Jopling arrived in Lutz at night, having brought with him his miserable melancholia. The evening itself had been quite pleasant, the crisp autumn air still holding the warmth of summer even as winter loomed.

The house was turned down for the night, and Jopling hadn't been of a mind to cast suspicion on himself by so obviously returning from a journey so late. He found himself equally averse to returning to the city-proper, knowing that the Marillen would be little more than salt in his wounds at that point.

He scaled the side of the house, and let himself into Dmitri's room, wherein he installed himself in the lounge chair that Dmitri kept at the window, a recent purchase made after Dmitri's discovery that Jopling was prone to reading in the early portions of the afternoon.

The night came to an end. Jopling watched as the sun broke over the horizon. Eventually the light struck Dmitri's face, awakening him.

He blinked at the window. At Jopling, by nature of his location.

"Holy shit." Dmitri sprung up, hair a wild mess, and stared at Jopling from his bed.

Jopling looked back at him. "Good morning."

Dmitri made to get out of bed and then seemed to think the better of it once the chill of the room seemed to register, drawing the blankets up to his ears. "Hey," he called. "Get the fuck over here."

Jopling stood, feeling very old. His joints ached in the draft permeating the room. The fire had died during the long stretch of night, and the cold stone around them did nothing to hold it's lingering warmth.

It had never felt so cold when Jopling had shared the bed with Dmitri, but Jopling supposed that life was behind him now. He stood at Dmitri's bedside, resigned.

"The job is done?"

Jopling hadn't the heart to say that he had taken his time, that it was wholly Dmitri's fault. "I'm good at what I do," he decided, in the end.

He had practically been able to see the schemes running through Dmitri's head. "You are a man of many talents," he agreed. "Now why in the hell are you hovering over me like a goddamn buzzard?"

Jopling blinked.

Dmitri rolled his eyes and shifted towards the middle of the mattress. "I've gone without for weeks," he said, and seemed particularly mortified to be spelling it out so plainly. "Don't you think for a second that I'm about to beg."

Jopling blinked again, and thought back on the last couple of weeks, and then at the entirety of his relationship with Dmitri from the start, truly ruminating on who it was that he had been dealing with.

He kicked off his shoes and got into the bed, feeling rather touched that Dmitri had given up the sleep-warm space for Jopling's benefit.

Dmitri knocked at Jopling’s chest with the back of his hand. "Why didn't you take off your clothes, stupid?"

"Because you're going to do it for me."

His face looked wholely unhappy about it, but Dmitri did as he was told, working the tails of Jopling's shirt from his pants before he set about addressing the buttons.

"I know exactly who I want you to kill next," Dmitri said. He had finished with Jopling's shirt, leaving it open at the chest, and went to work on his trousers.

"Yes?"

"My mother."

Jopling sighed.

"Don't start with that shit." Dmitri slapped him on the hip, and Jopling raised, allowing Dmitri to work the fabric down his legs far enough that Jopling had been able to kick them off. "First I'm gonna suck your dick, and then I'm going to tell you my plan. And then — and only then! — will I listen to your fucking motherhen-ing, alright?"

Jopling figured that it was a fair enough compromise. At worst, he was certain that he'd be able to save Dmitri from himself when it all went to shit.

Son of Murdered Countess Disappears Without Trace

**Where's Dmitri?**

  
Information leaked by a disgruntled subordinate dismissed from the rank and file of the Lutz Police Militia suggested authorities have no information of any kind as to the whereabouts of suspected murderer Dmitri Desgoffe und Taxis. He was last observed in the back row of the observers' box during the first hours of the deposition of Gustave H. He left suddenly only moments after the hearing commenced. It is likely his transport out of the country and perhaps off the continent may have been arranged in advance given: a.) the number of suitcases seen stacked, piled, and strewn over the roof and boot of his Daimler; and b.) the fact he appeared to be wearing a tropical linen suit and espadrilles beneath his sable overcoat. The warrant for his arrest is pending.


End file.
